


Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy

by libbertyjibbit



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Chair Sex, M/M, Mind Control, Post-MAG 180
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-01
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-13 02:16:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29769177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/libbertyjibbit/pseuds/libbertyjibbit
Summary: Annabelle promised Salesa a favor. The first night that Jon and Martin spend with them, she delivers.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Mikaele Salesa
Comments: 8
Kudos: 47





	Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to peevee for the beta!

Annabelle watches as Jon all but collapses into Martin's arms. Martin looks shocked for a moment, confused, but then he sees the way that Jon's eyes are fluttering and his face softens, relaxes.

He lays Jon on the bed, careful not to jostle him too much, and covers him. Jon doesn't respond and a brief flash of worry slips over Martin's face. He bends down and kisses Jon on the forehead, strokes his hair back. Says something in a low voice that Annabelle doesn't quite catch, but then again she doesn't need to. Not with him looking at Jon that way.

It's sweet, the care he's showing. Too bad Jon is senseless of it.

"Spying?" Salesa's voice is laced with wry amusement. "I hadn't thought you'd need to, here."

Annabelle opens her eyes, the vision of Jon and Martin replaced by Salesa's far less attractive face. He's smirking.

"Resting," she tells him. "I have been very busy, you know."

Salesa snorts, clearly not believing her. "Yes, keep your secrets," he says, waving a hand. "I'm not here for those. You know what I want."

"Ah, yes. Which will it be, then?"

"You mean I can choose? I could have either?"

Annabelle doesn't bother with an answer at this insult to her power; merely raises a brow and waits. Salesa taps a finger against chin and pretends to think about it. But he's impatient, and he's had his sights set on Martin since he walked in the door. Annabelle hides her smile.

It's been far too long since Salesa has had any real human contact. People are so much easier to manipulate when they’re starving.

~***~

Martin can't sleep.

He's exhausted, tired in a way he can't remember ever feeling before. It seems to go down to his very bones. But he can't sleep. No matter how many times he closes his eyes and tries to think of something that will send him down the road to slumber, his brain refuses to stop whirling. There are too many things to think about.

Too many things to worry about.

Such as whatever Annabelle Cane is up to. Martin doesn't believe for one second that she's doing any of this out of the kindness of her heart. She's using Salesa and she plans on using them, and Martin knows that he has to at least try to pay attention, try to see past whatever she says to the thin webs she has to be trying to weave around them. He has to be smart.

Which would be a lot easier if he could sleep.

Then there's Jon. Jon, who is sleeping so deeply that he didn't even feel the way that Martin accidentally jostled him while trying to put him to bed. Jon, who has grown more and more eager to enter each domain, to feel the knowledge seeping through him and speak it. Jon, who sometimes seems so far away, even when he's standing right next to Martin and saying all the right things.

Martin sighs and turns over onto his back. He opens his eyes and stares up at the ceiling. He imagines that he can see feathery cracks above his head, branching out like spiderwebs. He shivers and turns to his side instead, towards the door.

There's a light out there.

It flickers; not electricity, but firelight, and despite himself Martin is curious. He doesn't know what time it is - time had ceased to matter out there, and he senses that the only thing about it that matters in this place are the things that his body remembers it should be doing - but the flickering light would suggest that it's late. He wonders if it's Salesa or Annabelle out there. Or both. What they might reveal in the late evening, if they were asked the right questions.

Martin is too tired to even guess at the right questions. He knows this. He should stay right here, cozy and warm where he can listen to Jon breathe and try to let it lull him into dreams of his own.

He gets out of bed.

Salesa looks up when he enters. "I thought you'd still be sleeping," he says, sounding pleased.

Martin shakes his head. "I can't." He steps forward, hesitant, and Salesa waves him over.

"Oh, do come in, please. It's been so long since I've had real company." His mouth quirks. "Annabelle isn't really the best conversationalist."

"What is she after?" Martin blurts, then flushes as Salesa laughs.

"Do you really think she'd tell me? Or that she'd let me tell you anything if I had even the slightest inkling of it?"

Martin sighs. "I suppose not," he says, and sits in the chair next to Salesa. He rubs his eyes.

"Tired?"

Martin nods. "Yes," he says. "But I can't sleep."

"The bed not to your liking? Not comfortable enough? I've never had a problem, myself."

"No, no, it's good. Comfortable. I just can't seem to -" Martin cuts himself off with a shrug.

"I see," Salesa stands and moves behind where Martin sits. Martin cranes his head to look at him and Salesa smiles, placing a hand on his jaw and pushing his head forward again. "Perhaps you just need to relax."

His hands find Martin's shoulders and rub, and Martin melts into the touch. It feels good, to have someone touch him like this. With intent.

A brief thought tries to surface, Jon's face swimming in front of his mind, but it's blurry, out of focus. The hands on him are much more solid, much more real, and Martin arches into them with a soft moan. 

“That’s it,” Salesa says. One of his hands trails along Martin’s neck, making him shiver, and the other slides down the front of his shirt. “It feels good like this, doesn’t it? To be touched. It feels good to touch you, too.” Fingers find one of his nipples and stroke along it; Martin feels the skin tighten as his nipple pebbles up to meet the stroking finger and he squirms, fingers flexing on the arms of his chair. “Look at you; so responsive. She does good work.”

“Who does?” Martin asks. There’s something that he should be figuring out, he thinks, something at the back of his mind that he knows he could pull forward if he concentrated, but it doesn’t really matter. All that matters is that the hands on him stay there, that they continue to touch and caress and make him hard. One of his hands moves to his lap, to where he aches, and Salesa’s hand leaves his neck to grasp his wrist.

“No, I don’t think so,” he says. He licks Martin’s throat; Martin tilts his head to give him more room. “Leave the touching to me.”

“Yes,” Martin says. “Please.”

Salesa chuckles against his neck and then pulls away from Martin. Martin hears himself whimper and has enough time to be both bewildered and ashamed of the noise, how needy he sounds. How needy he _is_ , after only a few short touches. But then Salesa is standing in front of him, bending down and tugging at the hem of his shirt.

“Arms up, now,” he says, and Martin obeys, lifting his arms so that the shirt can be pulled off. Instead of pulling it off all the way, however, Salesa uses it to bind his hands together. “There,” he says with a satisfied grin. “That should stop you from touching things you shouldn’t be.”

Lust slices through Martin at the feeling of his clothing holding his hands in place. He could get out of it, and easily, but if he does this stops, and that’s the last thing he wants. Instead he keeps his hands right where they are, curling them around the back of the chair to hold them still. Salesa’s grin grows wider at this, and he pats Martin’s thigh.

“That’s very good,” he says, and Martin feels warmth expand in his chest at the praise.

Salesa leans forward. Martin redoubles his grip on the chair and mirrors the action, moving his body forward as much as he can. Their mouths connect with a slick sound. Salesa opens his mouth against Martin’s, runs his tongue along the seam of his lips and Martin lets him in easily, mouth opening, welcoming. The hands return to his body, mapping out his chest and belly, stroking every inch of the newly exposed skin. Martin feels himself tremble at every touch, his body heating, legs opening and hips twitching up, towards the press of Salesa’s body. His nipples are toyed with, twisted and pinched, and he cries out into Salesa’s mouth, the desperate noise muffled by lips and tongue.

Salesa pulls away from Martin’s mouth with a soft sucking noise, and trails his wet lips down his neck. Martin tilts his head, arching his skin into the touch, begging wordlessly for more. He wants Salesa to bite him, to suck the flesh under his lips, to mark him all over. _Please_ he thinks, over and over. _Please, please, please_. Realizes when Salesa runs soothing hands along his flank that he’s saying the words aloud, pleading in a hoarse voice.

The wicked mouth continues on its journey, stopping briefly to nip lightly at Martin’s clavicle before moving to his nipples. He sucks one into his mouth, rolling his tongue around the nub before biting lightly and switching to the other to repeat the process, and all the while his hands move, fingers tugging gently at the small trail of hair that leads into Martin’s jeans. He pushes his fingers under the waistband and tugs, a question that only has one answer.

“Yes,” Martin says, and tilts his hips up.

Salesa makes quick work of his jeans and pants, unsnapping, unzipping, and pulling them down to his ankles in a couple swift movements. He doesn’t touch Martin right away, however, only looks at the way that Martin’s cock, hard and thick and leaking, curves up towards his stomach. His gaze is more than interested; it’s _hungry_ , and Martin responds to it instinctively, rutting his hips into the air.

“Please,” he says, and Salesa’s eyes flame.

He hooks his hands under Martin’s knees and tugs, pulling him forward. Martin slides down the chair, letting Salesa move him where he wills until his arse is hanging slightly off of the edge, back nearly flat, arms stretched awkwardly above his head. Salesa drops to his knees and runs his hands up the back of Martin’s thighs, stroking his fingers lightly over his arse, teasing along the crack.

“Please what?”

Martin writhes. “Anything,” he says, senseless. Lost to anything but the need to have Salesa in and on him. “Whatever you want, just please. Touch me.”

He leans over and blows lightly on Martin’s cock, grinning at the noise it produces. “Since you’ve asked so nicely,” he says, and pushes a finger inside Martin’s arse as he swallows him down to the root.

Martin howls, his entire body lighting up, arching off of the chair and into Salesa’s mouth. It’s good, too good, better than it’s ever been and he’s coming before he’s even aware of it, pleasure sparking from the base of his cock and shooting through his limbs to fly out of his fingertips. His toes curl and his legs jerk, and still Salesa keeps sucking, swallowing him down, working more fingers into his body and pumping them steadily in and out. Salesa knows his way around an arse, and he curls his fingers in just the right way to make Martin see stars, to make his spent cock twitch helplessly in Salesa’s suckling mouth.

Salesa keeps at him, sucking and licking while Martin tries to shift away. Martin knows he could do it; he could bring his arms down and push Salesa off, use his legs to kick him away, but he doesn’t. He wants to, he thinks, but his limbs don’t seem to be in agreement with his brain, and his legs only continue to spasm gently with aftershocks as Salesa sucks, his fingers keep clinging to the chair behind him.

For the first time, the wrongness of the situation hits Martin, and he flinches, blinking down at Salesa as if seeing him for the first time. In a way he supposes he is. “W-what is –“ he starts, but then he sees a movement out of the corner of his eye. It’s only a shadow, but at the same time he feels something inside of his head give a sharp tug, as though it’s being pulled along on a string.

Martin feels his mind slipping, feels his body beginning to take over again, and even though there’s a brief moment where he tries to fight it, tries to struggle, he can’t, and he gives over again with only the smallest noise of protest.

He’s getting hard again, swelling inside of Salesa’s mouth. His body is starting to move with the fingers inside of it instead of away, chasing the pleasure.

Salesa pulls off of Martin with a wet noise. He pulls his fingers out as well and leans back on his heels to eye Martin’s cock appreciatively. He still looks hungry.

He stands, hands going to the hemline of the loose bottoms he’s wearing and pushing them down. He steps out of them, towards Martin. “I was going to fuck you,” he says, smiling when Martin moans his agreement, “but it’s been so long. I hope you don’t mind a change of plans.” He straddles Martin’s half-prone body, thighs nudging against his sides as he climbs up on the chair, and sinks down onto Martin’s cock. 

“Oh, god,” Martin says, voice wrecked, and Salesa barks a short laugh.

“Q-quite.” He sounds wrecked already, and he begins to rock back and forth, fucking Martin at an almost brutal pace, his eyes wide and glazed. He curls his fingers into Martin’s hair and drags his head up – Martin has to let go of the chair now or risk dislocating his shoulders – into a harsh, messy kiss, keeping him there, both of them panting into each other’s mouths as Salesa’s hips snap and Martin’s feet scrabble at the floor for purchase. When they find it, he begins to return Salesa’s efforts in kind, fucking up into him with sharp jabs of his hips that cause Salesa’s mouth to fall open; he gives a soft, broken off cry with every thrust. His eyes close briefly, then open wide, boring into Martin’s own.

They come staring at each other, sharing breath and heat and sweat, and it’s the best thing Martin’s ever felt in his life. He feels utterly free, the normal fight against the pleasure gone, his body giving over to it in a way it never has before, letting it blank his mind to anything else.

Coming back to himself is like swimming through deep water. At first it’s warm, soothing, and then he blinks his eyes open and it’s like hitting a pocket of cold, rousing him almost painfully. It hits him suddenly, what he’s done, how he’s betrayed Jon, and he feels like he might throw up. His stomach lurches and he leans forward, trying to even his breathing, which is whistling through his throat in panicky gasps. He can smell the sweat and come on him and that makes him feel even worse.

The worst thing is that doesn’t even know why he did it. Just that he did.

A hand settles between his shoulder blades, and he flinches, closing his stinging eyes as tight as he can. “Don’t,” he says, voice cracking.

“Oh dear,” Salesa says. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

“No,” says another voice, and Martin’s head snaps up. Annabelle Cane stares at him, her head tilted. “You’re remarkably resilient,” she says, and oddly enough, her voice is almost proud. “But no matter.” She reaches out and touches his face, and Martin feels himself relax, feels the panic in his mind settle into an almost soothing hum. He blinks placidly up at her.

“There we are,” Annabelle says, and smiles. “Clean yourself up, and then go back to bed. You’ll be just fine.”

Martin nods. Suddenly cleaning up and going to bed sounds like just the thing he wants to do. He glances at Salesa, who has been watching the byplay with a furrowed brow. “Goodnight,” he offers.

The faintest of smiles touches Salesa’s mouth. “Well,” he says. “I suppose that’s that. Thank you,” he adds, and for a moment Martin thinks that he’s speaking to Annabelle, but then he realizes that Salesa is still looking at him.

“Oh! I, um. You’re welcome?” he tries, and Salesa’s smile widens.

A little while later, Martin climbs into bed. He’d wanted to just pass out the same way Jon had but he’d also smelled like a man who’d been walking through who only knew what for the past who only knew how long, and he’d wanted to get the grime off first. But now that he’s clean he’s more than ready for a good night’s sleep.

Martin sighs as he settles, smiling at Jon’s relaxed face and the faint snores coming from his open mouth. He can’t wait to join him. He’s so tired he aches, his body sore in places that he didn’t even know he’d been using. His thighs and upper arms feel especially abused, and he marvels at how much he didn’t feel while they’d been out walking through the wasteland that is the world now. He wonders if Jon feels the same aches and thinks briefly about asking him, but decides against it. It’s really not that important. 

He turns to his back and waits for his mind to stop whirling and let him sleep. There’s a lot to worry about, of course, but worry will have to wait. Sleep comes first; lovely, wonderful, much needed sleep. His eyes slide closed and he starts to drift. It’s funny, he thinks, halfway between waking and dreams. If he didn’t know better, he could almost believe that there are feathery cracks in the ceiling above him. In the dim light, they almost look like spiderwebs.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading. If you enjoyed, please consider letting me know. :)
> 
> Title from the Queen song.


End file.
